


Fall For Someone

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Cabin Pressure, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Banter, Casual Sex, Kissing, Light-Hearted, M/M, POV Martin Crieff, The Vast (The Magnus Archives) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Martin, at a push from Douglas, tries to pick someone up in a bar... and succeeds.
Relationships: Martin Crieff/Mike Crew
Comments: 27
Kudos: 65





	Fall For Someone

The man was not drinking beer. It was the first thing Martin had noticed about him, when they’d ducked into the little pub to get out of the rain. He didn’t have a pint, but instead a mug of steaming tea, which he occasionally picked up with one hand and took a sip from, never looking up from the book in his other hand, his focus on it.

The second thing Martin noticed about him was the scar that ran down the side of his neck and then beneath the V of his shirt, a lightning scar that scattered into complicated patterns. It was white, but in the warm, comfortable light the raised skin stood out against the man’s pale skin, creating strange shadows on the underside of his jaw and the hollow of his throat. His hair was cut very short, and an anaemic white: he was handsome.

Martin thought so, anyway.

He had a strong jaw lightly dusted with silver-grey stubble, laughter lines around his mouth, and a smooth brow, no furrows at all.

“Are you going to stare at that man all night, Martin?” Douglas asked beside him as Herc got up to go to the loo, and Martin turned to look at him, looking owlish and feeling caught off guard.

“I’m not _staring_ at him,” Martin hissed.

“You are a bit,” Douglas said, arching an eyebrow, and Martin hunched his shoulders, trying to ignore the glow in his cheeks.

Arthur and Carolyn hadn’t come to meet them yet – they were still in the Disney store around the corner, but Douglas had texted them the name of the pub. New York in September was a lot colder and rainier than Martin preferred, but it still wasn’t as bad as Fitton, and they’d be flying back home tomorrow evening, anyway, transporting all of a man’s things to Edinburgh.

“Go and _talk_ to him,” Douglas coaxed.

“He doesn’t want to be _talked_ to,” Martin said. “He’s reading a book.”

“What sort of man sits at a bar in an Irish pub in Manhattan, drinking a cup of tea and reading a book, and expects no one to ask him about it?” Douglas replied. “Go.”

“No—”

Douglas actually _pushed_ him in the middle of the shoulders. “Another pint of Guinness for Herc, Martin, and whatever mocktail you like for me,” he said loudly, and Martin gritted his teeth, but walked forward anyway, coming up to the bar. The place wasn’t very busy, but there was a party in the next room, where the long bar stretched, and the bartender didn’t come over immediately, speaking with the birthday boy or whatever.

Martin glanced at the man. He did not look up from his book, which was bound in cloth boards with gilt lettering he couldn’t really make out on the front cover. The man had very pale eyes, a sort of grey-blue colour that made Martin think of fresh frost.

“Um,” Martin said.

The man did not look up.

“You’re— You’re drinking tea.”

The man’s head did not move, but his eyes stopped flitting across the page, and he met Martin’s gaze. Martin opened his mouth, finding that his tongue was abruptly very dry, and that his throat felt very thick, and his cheeks were burning.

The man said nothing, just kept Martin’s gaze, and Martin looked desperately back to Douglas.

_“Go on_,” Douglas mouthed at him, gesturing with one hand, and Martin looked back to the man with the book.

“Um, just that, not many people would drink a cup of tea in a pu— I mean, I’m from England, obviously, of course you can tell I’m from England because of my accent, but I don’t know if it’s different here but I don’t think it is, just that, a cup of tea is a bit diff— Not that you _have_ to drink alcohol, God, no, some of my best frie— Well, coworkers, not really friends, well, maybe, we’ve worked together for a lo— but that doesn’t matter, just that you, you’re drinking a cup of tea and I thought, oh, how interesting, he’s drinking a cup of tea, that’s, that’s enigmatic, oh, _God_, no, not enigmatic, that’s not what I meant, not mysterious, it’s not _mysterious_, it’s just _interesting_, no, no, that’s also bad, I’m… Sorry. I’m sorry, you’re reading a book, I’m bothering you, I’ll just—”

Martin turned to go, but the man lifted his head slightly, lowering the book, and gently caught Martin’s shoulder, stopping him. His lips, which were thin and a very pale pink, upturned ever so slightly at their edges. His expression was one of curiosity.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Oh my God,” Martin said. “You’re English.”

The man chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “My name’s Mike.”

“Mike,” Martin repeated. “Um, Martin, my name is Martin, Captain Martin Crieff.” He put out his hand to shake, and when Mike glanced down at it, he felt the blush in his cheeks intensify, immediately withdrawing his hand again and shoving it into his pockets. “I’m… sorry. I’m not good at… at talking to people.”

“That’s alright,” Mike said calmly. “I’m quite good at it: I’ll bridge the gap.”

Martin giggled, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, but if anything, Mike seemed charmed by it, putting the book aside entirely – and that was a good sign, wasn’t it, for someone to put their book aside to talk to you? Yes. He thought so.

“You’re a pilot?” he asked.

“Yes,” Martin said, nodding. “We’re just, um, a small charter firm, that’s my first officer, Douglas, and our other pilot, Herc, he’s just, um, oh, he’s back, now. Do you, um, do you like to— to fly?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “I like heights. What do you fly?”

There was a curious scent that lingered on Mike’s clothes, that Martin was aware of, now, being so close to him – it smelled like the air in a greenhouse, or the air just after a lightning strike. Ozone. It was distracting, so distracting that Martin didn’t realise he’d been asked a question until he realised Mike was looking at him, blinking his pale eyelashes, and blurted out, “You smell… nice. I… _Christ_, I’m sorry, um, it’s a Lockheed McDonnell 3-12 – she’s lovely, actually, we used to have a lot of trouble with her, but she’s a dream to fly these days. Bit of an antique model, you know, but it’s actually nice to have a slightly different sort of plane.”

“Did you always want to be a pilot?”

“Since I was six.”

“What did you want to be before that?”

“An aeroplane.”

Mike laughed, showing pearly-white teeth, and he looked to his drink. “That’s very cute,” he murmured. “I don’t think I wanted to be anything before I was six.”

“What about, ah, what about after?”

Mike’s smile faltered only for a second, and he shrugged his muscular shoulders, taking a sip of his tea. “Same as most people, I suppose. Peaceful, content.”

“That seems a lot nobler than what I wanted.”

“I wouldn’t call myself noble,” Mike murmured.

“Sorry for the wait there, lads,” said the barman, coming back. “What can I get you?”

“Um, another pint of Guinness, and, um, have you got any IPAs?”

“We’ve got an English Pale Ale, Brooklyn Pennant?”

“Sounds great. And, and do you have any mocktails that are quite heavy on pineapple juice?” The barman stared at him. “It’s not for me,” Martin added as the barman handed him a cocktail menu, walking away.

“Your friend doesn’t drink,” Mike murmured, glancing toward Douglas and Herc. “Sorry. _Coworker_.” He put on a faux-officious voice as he said it, and Martin looked very studiously at the menu, trying desperately to go for a few seconds without humiliating himself.

“Well, nor do you, apparently,” Martin said.

“Better not to drink at all than to drink _craft_ beers,” Mike said, and Martin choked out a fervent, wordless protest, turning on him.

“_Actually_, there’s lots of really interesting craft beers, and I’m not a craft beer _person_, I just think that when it comes to a good IPA that’s a bit light and sour it’s actually better to have a craft beer that’s _interesting_ rather than the same old… You’re laughing at me.”

“I am a bit,” Mike said mildly. “When you blush, your freckles really stand out.” He reached up, gently curling a lock of Martin’s hair around his fingers. “And you really blush _right_ to the roots, don’t you?”

Martin couldn’t really say anything: he just sort of breathed quite heavily.

“Have you chosen a cocktail?” the barman asked. He didn’t sound angry, not in a homophobic way, at least, but he did sound… impatient.

“Um, this one, please, thank you,” Martin said, pointing. “It’s not for me,” he said again.

“I don’t care,” the barman said. “Cash or card?”

“Put it on my account, Tony,” Mike murmured.

“Oh, no, no, you can’t—” Martin blustered.

“Yes, I can,” Mike said.

“You mustn’t.”

“I just did. What are you going to do about it, Captain?”

Martin blinked, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “You know, it’s really— I’m really not good at flirting.”

“You just need practice. Let me help with that – pull up a chair.”

Reflexively, Martin reached for one of the empty stools, but Mike touched him again – touched his chest, this time, his fingers brushing over his sternum through his jumper. “Your friends’ drinks,” Mike reminded him, and Martin grabbed Herc’s Guinness and Douglas’ _stupid_ cocktail both, rushing back to the table.

“Well _done_, Martin,” Douglas said.

“Shut up,” Martin said.

“Very nicely handled,” Herc agreed.

“He looks like he’s being very smooth, doesn’t he?”

“The red cheeks are a very apt seduction method.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“_Shut up!”_ Martin repeated, and went back, sitting up on the stool. Mike had put his square jaw on his pale hand, and was looking at him expectantly, his eyebrows raised.

“What do you like about flying?” he asked.

“Oh, God, _everything_,” Martin said. “How can anybody not _love_ it?”

It was almost easy not to be flustered, on comfortable ground like this – he could just talk about something he _knew_ about, something he _loved_, and he did: Mike didn’t interrupt him once, and he didn’t even look _bored_, didn’t even glance away. He just listened intently, smiling in a distant way, and he seemed so— so _engaged_.

“I’m sorry,” Martin said. “I’m not letting you talk.”

“I don’t talk much,” Mike said.

“But you said you’re good at it.”

“Maybe that’s why.”

Martin laughed, and then said, “Um, what— What do you do?”

“I trade in rare books and artefacts,” Mike said softly. “And acquire some specialist pieces for my employer. This is his tab.” He nodded to the till.

“He doesn’t mind that you buy drinks for random pilots?”

“On the contrary,” Mike said. “He encourages it. He likes for me to make friends, even if they do have _abominable_ taste in beer.”

“Do you, um, do you live in New York, or…?”

“No, I live just outside London,” Mike murmured. “I’ve just finished up my business here in New York, so I’ll be booking a ticket home this week.”

“You could fly back with us. We’re going to, um, to Edinburgh, and then back to Fitton Airfield, but you could, you could come, and then get the train, or, or something,” Martin said, too quickly. Mike considered the question, glanced back at the table, where Herc and Douglas still were. “I’d, um, I’d have to— We’d have to ask my, my employer, but we’re just moving cargo, no other passengers, so—”

“Are you operating back?” Mike asked. “Or one of the other pilots?”

“Oh, well, erm, Douglas is operating back.”

“You could sit with me, then,” Mike said. His hand was on top of Martin’s, his fingers playing back and forth over Martin’s hand, and Martin swallowed.

“Mmm,” he squeaked. “Yeah.”

“Do you mind heights?” Mike asked.

“Hm? No, no, of course not.”

“You should come back to my hotel, I’m in the penthouse. Fifty-second storey.”

“Your— your hotel?” Martin repeated.

“I’m sorry,” Mike said. “That was bold of me. Your friends—”

“Oh, they’re not my friends,” Martin said, “and they’re _fine_, let’s go.”

“Oh,” Mike murmured. “I guess you’re the bold one.”

“I’m just going to— Give me just a second.”

He moved over to their table, grabbing up his coat.

“Going somewhere?” Douglas asked, with an insufferable grin on his face.

“See you tomorrow,” Martin said loudly.

“_Martin_,” Herc said delightedly.

“Do you think Carolyn will let us take a passenger back to Edinburgh with us?”

“Would you like to marry him this week as well?” Douglas asked. “Would you like me to book a honeymoon for the two of you on a houseboat in Vienna?”

“Yes, Martin,” Herc said. “Probably. Text us your location when you go to his hotel, would you?”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Martin said, pulling his coat on.

“Well _done_, Martin,” Douglas said again, and as Mike came to stand beside him, Douglas and Herc both toasted him.

“I despise you both,” Martin said, turning on his heel, but Mike gave the two of them a friendly wave as he fell into step beside Martin, his bag loosely slung over his shoulder. Mike was, actually, shorter than him. Martin didn’t think he’d ever been with anyone who was shorter than him before, male or female.

“Your friends are worried I’m going to murder you?”

“I think they’re hopeful, actually.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

Mike’s hand rested on Martin’s arm, pleasantly warm. “You don’t have any phobias, do you?”

“Phobias? No, no, I don’t think so. Why, do you?”

“Not anymore,” Mike said, and squeezed. The scent of ozone filled Martin’s lungs, and he felt himself relax.

\--

Late that evening, an hour or so after midnight, Martin lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling in Mike’s pristine, beautifully appointed hotel room, his head still spinning. The falling sensation wasn’t tangled in his belly or his lungs anymore, and he could breathe again, but his skin was alight with remembered sensation, and he couldn’t—

He couldn’t _believe_ it.

His thighs wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Are you alright?”

“No,” Martin said. “You’ve _ruined_ me. I’ve never, I’ve never c— How did you, that was so…”

Mike looked down at him from where he sat on one edge of the bed, smiling slightly, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns over Martin’s quivering belly.

“Are you magic?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Mike said. “A bit. You really seemed to enjoy it, though.”

“I _did_,” Martin said. “I don’t think I can move, though.”

Mike chuckled, leaning over, and he rested his body over Martin’s, leaning in, brushing their lips against one another. The taste of lightning was tangy on Martin’s tongue, and his fingers twitched, but his hands didn’t move.

His phone vibrated on the bedside table, and languidly, his many muscles rippling, Mike reached for it, glancing at the screen.

“Douglas is asking if you’re still alive,” Mike said.

“Tell him no,” Martin mumbled, dreamily.

“I don’t think that I should do that. Perhaps a selfie?”

“_No!”_

Mike laughed, and Martin laughed too, trying to coax the feeling back into his arms, enough to reach for his phone, which he did, before dropping it immediately back onto the mattress. “You’ve ruined me,” he repeated.

“You’re just receptive to it,” Mike murmured. “You’d know if I’d ruined you. How does, _I’m fine, see you tomorrow,_ sound?”

“Mmm,” Martin said, and once Mike had sent the text, he climbed on top of him, resting chest-to-chest with him, his fingers curling in Martin’s hair. “How am I meant to go back to flying aeroplanes? I just want to have sex all the time, now.”

“My employer would pay for that,” Mike suggested, and Martin giggled, leaning up and kissing him again, his other hand touching the side of his hip. He’d flinched away, the first time, not sure if Mike minded him touching his scars, but he’d replaced Martin’s hand immediately, and told him not to worry.

\--

When Martin slept that night, blanketed by Mike’s body, he dreamt of endless blue, blue sky.

“Nightmares?” Mike asked mildly, when he woke.

“God, no,” Martin said. “Just— this brilliant, vivid _dream_.”

There was something soft and unexpected in Mike’s smile. It was— Really rather lovely.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dictionarywrite) or [Tumblr](https://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/).


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